


Smells Like Deer Spirit

by torch



Category: Corruption of Champions
Genre: Bestiality, Chocolate Box Exchange 2019, Knotting, M/M, Other, POV Second Person, Treat, game-type noncon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 11:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17745506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torch/pseuds/torch
Summary: The Erlking is not a recruitable companion.





	Smells Like Deer Spirit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [labocat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/labocat/gifts).



You don't know where you are.

Wherever it is, it's not like you were trying to end up here. It was an accident. You were running from something with an alarming number of tentacles and an even more alarming plan to let you get to know them all, up close and personal. Fleeing deeper into the woods, you managed to lose the tentacle beast, but you also lost yourself, and now you can't find a way out from trees that grow closer and darker around you while a thickening fog curls around their trunks, higher and higher.

When you hear a hunting horn, you start to run again. You don't even know why -- the sound just makes your heart beat faster, until it's an absolute pulse-pounding certainty that _you have to get away_. Hounds bay in pursuit, and the fog swirls close around you until you're running through a bowl of thick cream, pushing your legs hard to make them move, panting desperately in time with the hoofbeats chasing you.

You have to run faster. You can't run any faster. Panic tastes like metal on your tongue. It's a strange kind of relief when you finally stumble, when you're cornered and caught, standing with your back pressed against a rough-barked tree as you strain your eyes to get a better look at the... Hounds? Demons? Their rough panting sounds like a dirty chuckle, mocking you. Fog and fear blur your sight. Everything is a shifting terror caleidoscope of darkness and shadow and foggy tendrils that just remind you of the tentacle beast--

And then you see him. The leader of this hunt, riding up and dismounting in front of you. He stands out with a clarity nothing else has had since you came to this world, as if he's more real than any wild wonder Mareth has to offer. He's tall and lean, looming over you, and his burning red eyes seem to see you even more thoroughly than you can see him, with his gleaming-gold antlers and his short black fur. He wears fine clothing, but when you look down you see that his legs end in cloven hooves.

A demon, surely, come to terrify you and rape you. His hounds were demons, yes. He doesn't look human at all.

But neither does he look like the demons of Mareth, not that you've met all the demons of Mareth, and rather than fall on you cock first the way everyone and everything tries to do here, he nods gravely at you. "I am the Erlking," he says, and his voice is deep and smooth and rings like a bell through your body. "There is something unusual about you. That's how my hounds caught your scent. They will remember it."

You don't want the hounds to have caught your scent. They are perfectly still, staring at you, their eyes as red as their master's, but not so bright. You look back at the Erlking instead, and you shiver when you see that he's studying you in turn, inspecting, assessing, evaluating. There's nothing casual about it.

"We will let you go this time," he says. "But learn how to run faster. If you can make the chase entertaining enough..."

He shrugs, doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't have to. You know what you thought would happen to you, and now you have another chance; the fear in you is too strong to turn into relief all at once, but as the Erlking and his hounds slowly vanish into the fog, dark silhouettes with glowing red eyes, you sag back against the tree trunk and suck in one deep breath after another.

The fog slowly disperses, and your mind feels clearer as well. You leave this deep, dark part of the woods, and you don't run, even though you're sure the hounds still have your scent, even though they might -- no, no, they're not going to come after you, the Erlking released you, you can take it easy!

You don't take it easy. You hurry away, and while you're not running, you're not exactly being slow and careful, either. Even when you're in the sunny, more open part of the forest, you're not looking where you're going until you run into Jojo, a mouse-morph you've met before.

"Hello to you, too," he says, rubbing his shoulder. "Did you come here to meditate with me?"

That's not why you're here, but it couldn't hurt.

"I've been thinking it would be easier if I came to live at your campsite," he says. "If you truly want to keep yourself free of corruption."

You nod, and before you know it, your lonely campsite isn't so lonely any more.

You make careful forays along the shore of a lake you've discovered, and find a farm there, a real farm with real cows and real fields, and it's not like home, but it's closer to what you're used to than most of Mareth. You meet a few people you can talk to, and a whole lot of people and creatures who aren't interested in _talking_ with you at all. You don't go back into the deep, dark woods. You don't think about that terrifying chase, or about meeting the Erlking, or about his words to you. No smooth-voiced demon, if he is a demon, is going to taunt or tempt you into doing something foolish. You're a sensible man. It's not why you were chosen as champion, but still.

You were chosen because you're good, and brave, and kind, and strong. Now you're in a world where most of the people you meet despise kindness and laugh at goodness, and bravery only gets you into trouble. Really, it's very lucky you're strong.

Because when people ask you for help, you have trouble saying no, even when they're tiny fairies just fluttering around looking distressed, and that's how you end up going deeper and deeper into the woods after all, and it doesn't seem to matter how hard you think about not wanting to end up in the place where the hounds probably still know your scent and the fog makes it hard to think. You don't want to go there, you keep thinking about how much you don't want to go there, and too late, you realize you should have been thinking about how much you wanted to go somewhere else, instead.

Too late. Much too late. The trees are changing around you, their trunks growing higher and thicker, and the ground under your feet is strangely even and perfect for running. You can hear the hounds, and you know you have to run. The fog is rising, blotting out the landscape and smothering rational thought. You don't want to be cornered again just to have those strange red eyes look at you.

You run.

Tendrils of fog slap your face like branches. The ground is numbly hard, as if it were midwinter frozen, and with every step, your legs grow heavier. When you run towards a gap between two trees, you swear they move closer to each other; you have to find another way, and it's so hard to see where you're going, and your blood is beating in time with the pounding of hooves, the blasts of the hunting horn...

There's an opening, and you race for it. The baying of the hounds sounds like outright derisive laughter, loud and raucous. There's fog in your lungs, fog in your brain. You try to run faster. It feels as though something is breathing down the back of your neck, and you keep looking back over your shoulder. The third time you do that, you nearly run into a tree.

The trees have to be moving, there's no other way to explain it. You feel as if the forest is working against you, wanting you to get caught. You're not fast enough. You're not good enough.

You hear the hounds behind you to the right, and veer left. Then you hear the hounds behind you to the left, and veer right. You look back and can't see anything. You're inches away from crashing into a tree trunk, but there's another opening, enough space for you to throw yourself forward and--

Your feet have barely touched down before you're yanked into the air, suspended in a net that holds you firmly caught, trapped, like a prey animal. It's nothing but rope, and you're a thinking person with considerable manual dexterity -- you should be able to free yourself if you only had a little time.

You don't have any time. The hunt has caught up with you, the hounds racing up to stare at you with eager red eyes, tongues flopping as they pant, and it's entirely too much like laughter now, not even mocking so much as anticipatory. No, you don't have time, and you aren't sure you're a thinking person right now, as you struggle pointlessly against the net and do nothing but rub yourself raw on the thick, rough ropes. All you can feel is the terror of being hunted and caught, the panicky certainty that your fate is not your own to decide. You're someone else's catch, and they decide what happens to you.

The Erlking rides into the clearing and looks up at you, red eyes a little colder than last time, and you shiver. "You disappoint me." That voice. Your bones tremble. "You weren't fast enough. Not tricky enough." You shiver harder. You want to apologize, to try again, to be better. To be good. You want to run again, knowing that his eyes are watching you, that he will be the one to... Well, he _has_ caught you. And he's not satisfied.

"You want to try again," he says, as if he can read your thoughts. It's not a question. "Perhaps next time, you will be a challenge."

I will, you say, but the words are only inside you; you can't make your lips move. I will, I promise, I will, let me down, set me free, let me run again!

But his eyes are still cold as he says, "My hounds caught you, so you'll be their reward, this time."

What?

He unties the rope holding you suspended, and you tumble to the ground in a heap of net and confusion. By the time you've pushed yourself free of the tangle, he's gone, and you're flanked by two of the hounds. They look very pleased as they take in your sprawled limbs and slightly ripped clothes, the way the fabric strains across your rounded ass. One hound drools slightly.

Wait, you say, or try to. It's as if the forest and the fog are making you mute.

You can't tell if the hounds are dog-demons or demon dogs, and that's... really, that's probably the least of your problems as they both fall on you at the same time, ripping your clothes even more as they strip you -- not entirely naked, but you somehow feel more exposed with your shirt still on, pushed up under your arms as your ass is bared and the hounds position you on all fours, spreading your legs.

The hounds have dog cocks, of course, thick and red, the tips already glistening with wetness. You swallow hard, feeling as if the rope net weighed you down with submission, and you can't push that off. You were caught. You're not about to try to run. You were caught fair and square, and now you're going to pay the price for it, given to these creatures as their reward -- as their sex toy, because it's obvious what they want from you. What they're going to have. What they're going to do to you right now. You know they're not going to stop until those hard red cocks have been satisfied in your body, and your asshole clenches with a strangely passive fear.

At least they don't have two each, like those hellhounds you've come across in the mountains.

The hound in front of you rubs its cock across your mouth, painting your lips. You gasp, and that gets you a deep breath of raw hound musk, somewhere between warm animal fur and the smell of one of those knotted peppers you've come across from time to time. Your mouth falls open, and the hound pushes its cock in, stretching your lips and rubbing the wet cockhead against your tongue. You lick at it, ready to suck dog cock if that's what the hound demands of you.

Behind you, the other hound is rubbing its cock between your ass cheeks, leaving a wet smear every time the thick head slides across your pucker. You shiver, knowing the hound won't be satisfied like this, knowing the hard dog cock is going to press into you at any moment.

To your surprise, the hound moves away instead, and then you feel its long, wet tongue dragging along the same path its cock just took, covering your taint and crease in doggy drool. That's probably as close to lube as you're going to get, and you're grateful for it.

The hound fucking your mouth grabs your head, demanding all your attention, cock thrusting deeper as your head is tilted to its liking. The thick dog cock begins to push down your throat, and any protest you might have made is gagged out of existence. You don't understand how it can even fit, but your throat's stuffed full of cock and the hound snarls happily as it fucks in deep. Your eyes water, and as the hound thrusts again and again, tears start to run from your eyes and saliva drips from your mouth.

Now the hound behind you stops licking and presses its cock against you once more, and it's even wetter than before, thick precum slicking the head as it presses against your asshole. You shudder, and the dog cock presses inside, inch after inch sliding into your tight hole and stretching you painfully wide.

When you whine, the sound is muffled by cock, and it must feel good; the hound fucking your throat growls and thrusts harder.

You're caught between two dog cocks, stuffed full and used hard. Your mouth and throat. Your asshole and quivering insides. The hounds are taking you just as they want. They're fucking you for their own pleasure, not yours, and that feels strangely right. You ran, you were caught, you didn't make the hunt itself good enough for... anyone, so this is what you owe them. Your body. Their satisfaction. This is all about what they want, and you're surprised to notice that you're even as much as half hard from it, as those thick cocks thrust deep into your ass and your throat, using you steadily.

The awareness of your own body's response is a distant thing. You know it's going to fade, and that it doesn't matter. Instead you try to suck the cock that's pumping into your mouth and throat as best you can, and you tilt your hips up to receive every deep thrust from the cock that's plowing your ass.

Time has no meaning here in the swirl of fog, here under the looming trees, here where you're on all fours as the hounds' obedient fuck toy. You don't know for how long they use you while your fingers clench in cold moss and it's all you can do to hold the position they want you in. This is what you owe them, your foggy mind repeats over and over. You were a disappointing prey, you weren't good enough for a lengthy chase, they caught you and your body is theirs to dispose of as they like. This is what they like.

Because they're doing this for their own satisfaction, without giving a thought to yours, they keep to their separate rhythms, both of them fucking hard and fast while you brace yourself between them, taking what you get. The hound using your mouth breaks first, thrusting so deep that its thickening knot fills your mouth completely, grip on the back of your neck clenching tight as the first spurt of hot cum goes down your throat.

Behind you, the other hound growls -- they might have fucked each at their own pace, but now they're coming within moments of each other, and you whimper silently as the hound thrusts in deep, shoving its knot into your abused asshole. Thick cum pumps into you.

You didn't come, but you're feeling a strange satisfaction as they fill you up. You were poor entertainment during the hunt, but at least you could offer this. And you thought you were nothing but a receptacle, but now, knotted back and front and unable to move, you're surprised to feel the hounds lick fondly at you, pressing their warm, furry bodies against yours.

When their knots go down, they pull out. The one in front of you pumps its cock slowly, drawing out the very last drops, so one final dribble lands on your tongue, and then the bobbing cock wipes doggy demon cum across your face, hot and spicy. You can feel the other hound's cum starting to leak down the inside of your thighs. They let go of your body, and you sink down to lie on the moss, exhausted. Your eyes are closed, so you don't even know which one of them pats you on the ass before they pad away.

You know you can't stay here, can't sleep here. Particularly not sprawled like this, face down with your legs spread and your stretched, cum-filled asshole an open invitation to every sex-crazed being in the woods. Of which, you remind yourself, there are many. Slowly, and wincing a great deal, you get up and pull your clothes together so you look mostly dressed.

You see the hounds left you a big, shiny red pepper -- maybe as payment for your services, maybe to remind you that you were just a submissive bitch to big, shiny red cocks.

The fog has receded, and you can walk out of it now, very carefully, keeping your destination firmly in mind until you stumble into your own familiar camp. Even the sight of the portal's swirling wrongness is reassuring.

All you want is to curl up and sleep away your confusion, but Jojo gives you a stern look. "Are you all right? I can sense corruption in you." That's probably polite mouse speak for _You've got demon-dog cum on your face_. "We should meditate."

"Sure. But I need to wash up first."

You don't go near the deepest, darkest woods after that, for real this time. Not for a long time. There's so much to do here in Mareth, so much to explore, and you're very busy! You help out at the farm as much as you can, because it's an oasis of peace and sanity, at least as long as you stay away from that infuriating centaur. Running with Whitney makes you feel faster and stronger, and you need that. You discover a city out in the desert, and somehow you get involved in keeping the streets of Tel'Adre as peaceful as you can. You meet a nice otter girl by the lake who takes pity on you and feeds you fish when you're hungry. Fighting demons takes a lot of energy.

You still want to believe the best of everyone, and to help them whenever you can. Of course, that's how you end up with a self-lubricating anus and direct experience of giving birth from a body orifice not normally considered capable of it. You thought the frog girl needed a _babysitter_ , not someone to take her offspring for her before they were even born.

So much to do. There's no reason for you to even think about the woods, or being hunted and running as fast as you can with your heart beating in your throat, or hounds having their way with you, or a tall, well-dressed huntsman with golden horns looking down at you as if he expects you to do better next time. It's not as if you ever dream about it.

"I noticed your sleep is restless nearly every night," Jojo says. "We should meditate."

"...Sure."

You've learned your lesson. You're not good enough to run with the hunt, and you're not going to enjoy what happens when you get caught and they declare you a substandard prey. You're not tempted. You don't wonder what's between the Erlking's legs.

(Or how big it is. You're not thinking about that at _all_.)

"Very restless."

"Maybe we should meditate," you say. "Or train! Yeah, let's train."

That leaves you too tired to think, most nights. Even the sharp scent of chemicals coming from the ratty old alchemist's workplace can't keep you awake.

You can't stay away from the woods forever, though. There are lots of reasons for you to go into the sunnier and more easily navigated parts of the forest, and as long as you don't go deeper or lose your way, as long as you're not being chased by a tentacle monster, or following a tiny flitting faery, or investigating a strange light to see if people's warnings about kitsune are true...

You're here again.

Heavy fog curls around the trunks of trees that are taller and thicker than they were before, and your breath clouds before you. It's the sudden chill that hardens your nipples and sends a shiver down your spine, nothing else. You're here again, but you should be able to leave just as easily, go back the way you came and forget about--

When you turn around, there's fog and trees. The way you came here has vanished. You try not to breathe in too deeply, remembering how the fog seemed to eat your thoughts and leave nothing but fear and flight-response.

Then you hear a hunting horn, and the baying of hounds getting closer.

No. No. They're not going to catch you again, not going to take you and use you again, not going to turn you into submissive prey spreading your legs without protest for dog-demon cock, no, no, _no_. When you suck in a breath, the fog fills your throat with fear. You bolt.

Everything is more intense now. The fog is thicker, the trees are darker, your fear is stronger. But you can also run faster, and your pulse beats hot with strength as well as terror. Your armor is light and doesn't slow you down. The fog drags at you as before, but it can't catch you. You run, and sometimes you think you've outpaced the hunt entirely, but you always hear the hunting horn again, or that incessant, infernal baying.

In the fog, all trees look the same, blackly menacing with branches like grasping arms. The woods can't be as deep as all that, but even though you know full well that you've been outside this twisted labyrinth of fog and fear, that your whole life is outside, you keep running with the terrified certainty that you can run forever, run until your legs give out, and you'll never break free of this nightmare unless the huntsman permits it.

You have more endurance now, at least, and if this chase feels endless, that means you haven't been caught yet. You run, dodging trees that try to stop you. At one point you splash through an unexpected stream, getting wet to the knees but losing the hounds long enough that the panic doesn't clog your throat quite so badly.

Maybe that's what makes you reckless. You listen carefully for the hounds, choosing your path to avoid them, and it's only when you hear them baying on both sides that you remember how cleverly they drove you into a trap last time.

In desperation, you rush forward in the direction that surely no one expected you to take, bouncing off a fallen tree to leap across the shrubbery that blocks your way. You touch down on ground you can barely see through low tendrils of fog, covered by leaves and--

The net snaps closed around you, and you're hoisted up to dangle in a tight rope web once again. You gasp, sucking in as much fog and fear as your lungs will hold. You ran so far, so fast, it doesn't seem possible that you were caught in the same trap. Yet here you are, and you'd swear it's the same rope you're tangled up in. Red-eyed shapes slowly materialize out of the fog below, slinking back and forth below you, and it seems to you that the hounds are looking at you with approval and... no, don't let that be anticipation.

You remember what it was like to be double-teamed by demon dog cocks, and a shudder runs through you as you clench your ass and swallow hard.

The sound of brisk applause makes the hounds settle down, sitting in a semi-circle like a well-behaved audience as the Erlking rides into view, clapping his gloved hands. He's not smiling, but something suggests that he could be. "Very well done," he says. "It's been a long time since I enjoyed a chase so much."

He dismounts, looking up at you with his eerie red eyes, like and unlike those of his hounds -- so much clearer and more intelligent. When his hooves touch the ground, the fog begins to recede from that spot, and the small clearing takes shape around him, becomes a real place. "You are very good at running, my hind, my prey."

You shudder again, because you're not prey, you're not the hind to his buck, you're not _his_. (But the sound of his voice resonates through every part of you, and the clenching this time isn't from fear, is not the no you want it to be.) He grips a rope to one side and lowers you down with casual strength, and there's soft moss to cushion your landing. You could have sworn there was no moss when you ran. These woods belong to him, and they do his bidding.

You look up along his body, from the hooves planted securely on the ground along the long legs in tight hunting leathers to the outline of the large cock between his legs. You swallow hard. Those leathers are very, very tight, showing you every inch. When your eyes dart up to his face, his red eyes are knowing.

He holds out a hand to you, and the leather of his glove is warm as you take it. You tense your muscles, which is pointless, since he pulls you to your feet with no effort at all, and you thought that at least standing up would make you feel like the two of you were on equal footing, but he's taller than you, he's stronger than you, he's got a bigger cock than you, and no matter how good at running you were, he's the one who chased and caught you.

"I have an offer for you," he says. "A choice." That's unexpected. You tip your head in a listening gesture, and he goes on, "You can surrender to the hunt, join us." He gestures to his hounds. You shake your head. Much as you don't want to run from the hunt, you really don't want to run _with_ the hunt. You've already been closer to those hounds than you ever mean to get again. "Very well. If you want us to stop hunting you, I will respect that decision."

Stop hunting you?

You wouldn't be their prey anymore.

You could go safely into these woods -- well, as safely as you can go anywhere here, which is not very safely at all, but there'd be no fog, no panicked running, no hunting horn, no relentless baying at your heels. No red-eyed huntsman setting traps for you.

You'd never see him again.

"No," you blurt without thinking, the word rushed on your tongue. "That's not what I want. Don't -- don't stop."

His eyes turn a darker shade of red. He's pleased. "I can reward you for the entertainment you've provided." He draws out a handful of gems, holding them as casually as if he's offering a handful of oats to his horse. There's something else mixed in with the precious stones, and you can't tell if it's gold shavings or lemon peel curls. The light is better now, but it's not _good_.

Gems are useful, sure, and if he's offering, you might as well take them. You don't lift your hand to accept them at once, though. You're not even meeting his eyes, looking at his body instead. He's so close, and you can feel his presence the way you can feel your own heartbeat.

"Or perhaps you'd prefer something more personal." His voice is extraordinary, deep and clear and precise, and you could listen to it forever. "Intimate." Then you realize what he's saying, and also realize that you're staring at his crotch again, staring at that huge cock and wondering if it could even fit inside you. Wondering how it would feel.

Your body feels hot, and not just from the running. When you look up and meet his eyes again, you've already made your choice. You've forgotten that it was a choice. "Yes."

His hands close around your arms and he crowds you back against the nearest tree. You've been running from him for so long, he caught you, and now he's _caught_ you. He might say that he's rewarding you, but you know this is what you owe, you know he's caught you and he's claiming you. His mouth is on your throat, he's stripping away the bits of your armor that could get in the way with ruthless practicality, and you don't know if the hounds are still sitting there like a quiet, appreciative audience, watching everything.

He hoists you up against the tree, his cock is rubbing between your ass cheeks, and you're suddenly so hard you could hammer nails and you don't care if the whole forest is watching. He pinches your nipples, and you gasp in delighted shock. The air is still at least half fog, going into your lungs, but you're not filled with fear -- your heart beats fast, your body is trembling, but all you want to do is say yes again, over and over. Even though the hounds are probably right there. Even though his cock is too big. He's hung like a horse, but he isn't a horse, and you actually lose a few moments to zoological confusion before you remind yourself that this is Mareth. He pushes against your ass and you open for him, inch by slow, impossible inch. (Thank you, frog girl.)

His cock isn't human. His face isn't human. He's got _horns_ , for fuck's sake.

But he's not a demon. He just fucks like one.

You cling to his shoulders, not because you're afraid he'll drop you but because he's tall and strong and solid, he is the heart and core of these wild woods, and the fierce reality of him, the way his cock in your ass is so undeniably _there_ \-- filling, stretching, fucking -- is just what you need after the long chase through all the maybes of the mist.Your heart's still pounding and your breath's coming short, but every time you draw in air it's scented with him, with sex, and it just makes you want more.

"Yes." Wait, you already said that. "Yes. More. Yes."

He laughs in your ear, and the hot puffs of his breath make you shiver. He's got one hand under your thigh now, the other gripping your opposite hip, and you're skewered on his huge cock. You couldn't get away if you tried. You're really not trying. You moan wantonly, and every frantic gasp for air lets you take in his scent -- leather, warm fur, a deeper musk that you can't get enough of.

He's fucking you hard up against the tree, and the thick trunk is steady, silent support against your back, but the branches rustle. He's so deep in you, his cock is so big, more than you thought you could take, and it feels _good_. You were good enough, you pleased him, and now you're getting it good as he pleasures you both.

When his gloved hand slides away from your hip to grip your cock and start to jack you off, you whimper, head falling back against the tree. It's so good, it's _so good_. All the tension in your body, all the pulse-pounding terror, has turned into this inarticulate wanting, a desire so fervent that it feels like it fills your body and stands out like an aura all around you, like you're wrapped in a spiky glow of lust. "Yes." You're babbling and you can't stop. "Yes, yes, you're so-- Leaf mold, you don't smell like leaf mold, there are no seasons-- Harder! Yes!"

There's a tight buzzing in your head, and your body is shaking and straining in his grip, so securely held that you can wriggle and thrash and finally scream, because he's rubbing you just right, inside and outside, and you come hard, spurting all over yourself and his nice clean glove. The huge cock inside you pumps hard, fast, and the Erlking comes in you, spurting you so full of cum that all you can do is cling to him, now just as sticky on the inside as you are on the outside.

Both of you sag down slowly, and you try to wriggle closer for warmth, though it's hard to get closer to someone when he's already hilted in your ass.

"I don't smell like leaf mold," he says in your ear, and he has such perfect control of his voice, even right after orgasm, that you can't tell if he's insulted or not.

"You make me think of fall," you say drowsily. "But Mareth doesn't have any seasons." You fall asleep like that, with his cock still inside you and your face pressed against the soft fur of his neck.

You wake up several hours later, with a moss-pattern imprinted along your jaw and a somewhat sore ass. The Erlking is gone, leaving a fox berry, which you don't eat.

When you get back to camp, you make straight for Jojo, because he has the keenest perceptions when it comes to this of anyone you've met. "Do you sense any more corruption on me today than you did yesterday?"

"No," he says, blinking up at you. He doesn't ask about it. "Do you wish to train?"

Your camp site is a lot bigger now. People keep offering to move in, and you have trouble saying no. There's an oddball lizan mage in a fancy tent, and that ant-morph girl digging so much and so deep that you're a little worried the portal is just going to sink into the ground and disappear one day. And sometimes you're the one who insists on the moving in -- the idea that Amily was going to hide out in some old ruins while she was pregnant and giving birth didn't seem right to you, and then there was the poor girl in the sand witches' cave, and you couldn't stand the idea that she would spend her whole existence in an underground bathing room. At least she can walk now, and Rathazul seems to be teaching her a few basics.

You're not afraid of the deep woods anymore. You don't go out of your way to avoid them, and maybe that's why it takes a while for you to end up there again. When the fog rises around you and you hear the sound of the hunting horn, you don't panic, but you do run. And when you finally get caught, the Erlking is just as fantastic a lover as before. He leaves you a couple of peppers this time.

You're getting stronger. You thought you were strong when you came here, but now you're actually confident that you can handle most of what Mareth throws (cock-first) at you. Tentacle beasts don't make you flee these days. You enjoy running from the hunt, and when you get caught, you enjoy that even more. You're even starting to enjoy the fog and the fear, because you know what comes next.

"Listen," you say into the Erlking's shoulder. Then you're distracted. "You smell like lemon peel."

"But not like leaf mold." Despite his beautifully grave voice, you start to wonder if the Erlking might not have a sense of humor. "Lift your leg up." Then he's in you, every thick hard inch, and your head falls back and you forget what you were going to say.

You work. You train. You fight. Sometimes you run. Sometimes you're in the deep woods, and you run, and you get caught, and his gloved hands are perfect on you, every time.

Every time.

The fog comes up, swirls high around you, the trees are silhouette-black, and the sound of the hounds baying makes your feet start to run long before your head thinks about it. Your heart's pounding, your breath's coming short, and the terror is like foreplay. Under your feet, the ground is smooth and even, just the way you want it to be, perfect for running. The hounds are fast and strong, but you've learned to be faster and stronger,and when you find the little stream that goes through the woods, you enjoy playing with it, going across it, splashing along in it, messing up your trail.

Messing it up, but not too much. You're good at this by now. You know how to be a challenge, you know how to draw it out, and you also know how to get caught. After a good long run, you slow down just enough to figure out where the hounds are trying to drive you, and you let yourself be pressed in that direction, with a couple of looping detours, until the only way you can go is between two trees and past that bush and--

The net yanks you up to hang at what is antler height for the Erlking. He comes riding up, dismounts gracefully, and looks up at you with unsmiling approval. That was a good chase, and you know it. His eyes have that glow that you know means he enjoyed himself, and even from this angle you can tell that his huge horse cock is hard and ready.

He releases you to sprawl at his feet -- his hooves -- and offers you, seriously, the same choice as always: you can join the hunt if you like, you can accept a reward of jewels and precious items, or you can ask him to stop, and the hunt will never come after you again. His cock is straining against his leathers as he gives you the last alternative, to have sex with him.

"You know what I want," you say as he pulls you upright and you go into his arms without hesitation.

This time he takes you from behind. You're on all fours for him, your ass bared to the cool air, and his horse cock is a welcome warmth, rubbing between your cheeks, smearing precum everywhere. He pushes in and fills you, and it is, indeed, exactly what you want. "My prey," he says in your ear. "My hind."

You shudder with every deep stroke. It's always like this; the hunt winds both of you up so much that you're always ready and more than ready by the time he catches you, and the way your body yields to his seems like the only proper conclusion. It's so good, he feels so good in you and his gloved hands feel so good on you, and you can never tell how long the fucking lasts when each thrust sinks into you forever and the darkness under the trees never changes. All you know is how good it feels when his huge cock strokes into you just right, and you don't really need the reacharound from his gloved hand to spill your cum on the mossy ground. He floods your ass, filling you -- he always comes a lot.

Always. It's always like this, but you hope this isn't all it has to be. You're dazed and weak with pleasure, but you're not going to pass out this time. The two of you collapse to the ground and he curls around you, spooning you, still inside you. You pull his arm more securely around your chest. "Listen," you say, then realize you have no idea how to start.

"The woods are very quiet when there's no hunt," he says, as if you're having a conversation.

"Mm." That's true enough, but not what you want to talk about. "Do you know where my camp is? You could come there." He says nothing. One of you is off-script. "Sometime? To visit?"

"I've claimed these woods for my own." He's very warm, not just his cock in you but his still-clothed body pressed against yours and his breath on the back of your neck. "This is my domain."

"That doesn't mean you can't leave it sometimes." The words get sucked away by lingering fog. You're not sure you even heard them yourself. Sleep drags at your mind, and you squeeze his hand to stay awake. "Does it?" A tendril of fog winds around you. You can't see anything.

When you wake up again, there's no way to tell how much time has passed. You wipe at yourself with moss, enough to pass for clean at a distance, march back to your camp, and go straight up to Jojo. "We should meditate."

"Of course," he says. "There's no corruption on you, though." His nose twitches, smelling what _is_ on you.

"I need to calm down."

Jojo nods. "But maybe you should wash up first."

You don't go back for a while. There's a lot to do. You're very busy.

Trying to cleanse Mareth of corruption is a back-breaking battle of uphill work, and between killing demons and mixing your metaphors, you barely have time enough to sleep. Helia the salamander woman moves into your camp, bringing her still with her, and everything smells like raw alcohol for a while. She tells you to have a drink and relax, and you head for the woods, alone, because it's not her fault that you can't.

Low fog curls out to wrap around your ankle and tug in invitation. When you resist, the fog rises higher, and its tug is less gentle. You stumble forward a few steps, and now the fog is high enough for you to breathe in. You thought you had grown immune to the dark flavor of panic. You're wrong. It only takes a deep breath for all your thoughts to scatter, and then you're running. You know that's not why you came here, but you can't stop.

You can hear a hunting horn.

The ground is less even than before. These are the same woods, and you would have said you knew them, but either the trees have moved or your perspective has changed; the fog catches you off-balance time and again, and you stumble into tree-trunks and bruise yourself. It's a real branch whipping across your face this time, and it leaves a mark.

Even with the fog-born fear rising with new urgency in your throat, you're strong, and you're a good runner. You could run fast enough not to get caught, even. And for a while, that's what you do, fleeing the baying hounds as if they'd sink their teeth in you when they caught you.

That's not what they would sink in you. You know, and you don't know. Fear of teeth mixes with fear of dog-demon cock, and you lead them a merry chase, although the woods are harsh and unfriendly. Trees stand closer to each other, fencing you in, and the hard ground is very uneven now, with roots to catch your feet and hollows for you to trip in. You can't draw this out forever, and you don't want to. It's not just fear you can taste in your mouth.

When the net jerks you aloft, you're relieved, and angry, and your pulse beats harder than ever. You try to breathe the way Jojo has shown you, and realize your mistake when the fog seeps deeper into you. Your body responds. Your body is terrified, and it is ready.

You have to wait longer than usual before the huntsman rides into the clearing. He looks the same as last time you saw him. As every time you've seen him.

"You did well," he says, "despite the challenges you faced." He dismounts and lowers the trap, and you're past being surprised by his strength as you free yourself from the net and stand up. "Perhaps not well enough for a reward."

"I'm not here for a reward." You're trying to read his face, his red eyes, his smooth voice that gives nothing away.

"Would you be a reward, then?"

The hounds perk up at that, sitting back on their haunches, tongues hanging out. You can tell, even with the fog and the lack of light, that they're ready to have you, that they're just as hard as their master. And the fog winds into you, telling you you didn't run as fast as you could, didn't run as far as you could, you owe them recompense, you were caught and you're prey and you should surrender properly.

You shake your head. "I want to talk to you."

"Talk." His antlers are a dull gold now, hung with strands of fog like lace. His red eyes barely glow. But he comes up to you, and one flick of his hand dismisses both the hounds and the horse. The fog begins to lift, but slowly. "You can be a reward, or take one for yourself. I offer several alternatives to those who have provided me with sufficient entertainment. Talk is not one of them."

"I thought I might have missed something." You mean that you hoped you had missed something, or that submitting to him enough times would mean something. That something would change. "Is this really it? Is this all there is?"

He looks at you without answering. He is tall and slim and elegant, and the gold pattern on his dark green cloak ripples when he moves. You wonder if your jizz is still caught in some of those stamped patterns.

There's no demon-darkness in him. He's not corrupted. Yet he runs with those hounds, and they obey him. Just looking at him makes you shiver. You don't understand him.

Your body doesn't care that you don't understand him. Your body just wants to get fucked.

You go to your knees right there on the hard ground and press your lips to taut leather right over the bulge of his huge, hard cock. The fog wraps approvingly around you. He works at the fastenings with his gloved hands, and as soon as his cock is free, you begin to lick at it, sucking the flared head into your mouth, taking as much as you can before you have to pull back and breathe.

One gloved hand winds into your hair, tugging, and you let yourself be moved when he wants, held still when he wants. That huge cock fills your mouth and goes into your throat and it's too much and it's just what you owe him. The fog in your lungs tells you you're his, for all that you're being rewarded. That being his is the reward. That if you were one of his hounds, you would belong to him forever.

Well, that's not going to happen. You could suck his cock forever, perhaps, but in fact, he doesn't fuck your throat for very long. Your face is sticky with the first spill of tears when he draws back and pulls you upright, then hoists you up with your back against a tree, like the first time. The way he only strips you of just as much armor as necessary is the same, too. He presses into you, too big, too fast, and you love it.

That is very much the same.

He's such a fantastic fuck. He holds you up effortlessly and fills you with thrust after thrust, and your armor is wrecking the bark of this poor tree, the hard chitin leaving deep furrows as he takes you. You wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, clinging to him.

He still doesn't smell like leaf mold, or like an animal. When you press your face against his neck and breathe in, he really does make you think of lemon peel, or some kind of citrus, anyway. Even the fur doesn't really smell like fur. Everything else is overridden by leather and sweat and sex.

"I wish," you say into the short black fur, but you can't hold onto wistfulness when you're getting the fucking of your life. Your fingers dig into his shoulders. "Yes! Right there!"

Thought goes spinning away and you're all body for a while, and everything is hot and immediate, breath and blood and the gold glint of horns. You're prey, hunted and caught and taken, and you love every moment of it and scream for more. He fucks you until the woods are revolving around you both in a dizzying caleidoscope of lust-hazed tree silhouettes, tiny glowing red dots like corrupted stars or hounds' eyes, whirl and whir and more, more, more!

When he comes in you, you bite his shoulder and jerk in his grip, your orgasm dragged out of you by his. His legs fold up, just like that, and he brings you down with him until you both sprawl against the tree in an uncomfortable tangle. The fog drags refreshingly cool fingers over your face. You have a fold of his cloak in your mouth.

Spitting it out, you say quietly, "I do mean it. You'd be welcome." Your surprisingly roomy camp could easily expand to also hold one oversized huntsman with the head of a deer. And his horse. And his pack of hounds.

Actually, most of the people in your camp would hate the hounds.

"These are my woods." His voice tolls like a steady bell, no uncertainty in the sound.

You try to think of the right conversation option, the one that will let you ask properly, the one that might make him say yes. He's untainted by corruption, he's strong and stubborn and has an odd sense of fair play, he's certainly no odder-looking than anyone else in Mareth, and he fucks like the filthiest dirty dream imaginable.

You can't come up with anything, but you're both here and awake and he's listening, so in the end you just ask. "I'd like you to come live with me. What do you want?"

The woods are silent. His answer is slow in coming, but entirely certain. "I don't want. I _am_."

You lean against his chest and feel his strength, the singularity of his purpose. He's good at being himself, that much is certain. These are his woods, this is where he hunts, and you can come here and be hunted, or not. "Yes," you agree, because there's nothing to argue about. "You are."

He shifts, lifting you off him and setting you on a patch of mossy ground, and stands up, cloak swirling about him. You hear a soft clop and jangle, his horse walking up to him. He stands with one gloved hand on the bridle, staring down at you with glowing red eyes. "When you come here, I will hunt you," he says in his beautiful voice, both threat and promise. Then he swings up on his horse and rides away.

The hounds follow him in an obedient pack, though some of them look back at you, maybe memorizing your scent, or just reminding you that you'll be given over to them if you're not good enough. You stare back at them, flatly, because that's not going to happen again. You're going to be good enough, and if you can't be _good_ , you'll at least be strong. And fast.

Once they're gone, you stand up and try to put yourself back together. The armor's the easy part. You look around the clearing to make sure you haven't forgotten anything, and pick up a couple of shiny peppers from the ground. They don't grow here in the woods, but the Erlking always carries some.

You turn to leave. You know exactly where you are. You start walking.


End file.
